I am in the final throes of dealing with the Vikings exam, something which drives me absolutely frantic — there are so many bits of information to collate for each student, for a start. I am also, going in & out on the bus, reading a book about living in Britain during WW II (for Ed related purposes). I’d got to the chapter on digging for victory and wartime improvisation, and came home to something more like one of those 17th century dinner pictures. In the last 3 days our freezer has coasted to a halt and fallen over. This is exceptionally boring of it since as modern country dwellers, we tend to keep it pretty full. I buy my meat at the farm shop, a lot of it at a time, I make bread and freeze two out of three loaves, etc. Peter had done a sort-out; prawn dim sum, cod and duck breasts have ended up summarily cooked together for the Rough Cats, a haggis (a relict of the Palaeographer who if she reads this, may remember buying and forgetting the damn thing) and two packets of low fat sausages, some rather bled-on and soggy rolls and a loaf cooked together for the DEAR DOGS (and how we are going to get them back onto dried dog food I cannot think), while everything else was left for my inspection. I am temperamentally averse to wasting food at the best of times, but after a gripping hour on the bus reading about making Christmas pudding with an ounce of suet and all that, I promptly set about making three simultaneous casseroles. I think the Martyrologist’s pheasants will have to become paté, because it’s the only way I can think of using them in the present crisis. There are some good dinners in the future of imminent guests, if I can get Miss T’s mum to harbour the results. I may say, incidentally, that John Lewis have been all that is helpful and constructive about the freezer, and organising a replacement. We were rather impressed. Which doesn’t remove the fact that this is the most UNMITIGATED NUISANCE. All that can be said for it is that the Apparitional Gamekeeper’s beastly trout can now be called honourably disposed of.

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Well, Radio Eireann this morning featured a woman who makes her own dried dogfood and is offering a large quantity of same to feed starving Pakistani children - says she eats it herself and feeds it to her children…

Ah THAT haggis…as opposed to the subsequent purchace which made it safe to London and then was tossed by my caring-but-dim flatmates over my Christmas rustication, each mistaking it for the other’s unwanted mince. How? How? (Neither of them, apparently had any mince to neglect or discard.)

But I thought you’d either chucked it long ago or fed it to the deserving, or I’d never have made the second retail run to Fochabers at all. The inner mystery of the permafrost layer, no doubt?